“And I am sure you are correct, Miss Griffin, concerning your betrothed. Marriage should be based upon love and respect. Sadness is inevitable in life, but there is no reason to walk into its embrace, if it can be so helped.”
A tentative gloved hand reached out and rested upon his sleeve, but surprised eyes surveyed him. “How eloquently put. And a sentiment not widely held within the Ton, where money and title rule. It sounds as though your marriage was a happy one. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Seth’s eyes flickered, had not considered his words could be taken as such, so merely nodded as they passed through to the dining room.
Seating her in a walnut Chippendale chair, he watched as she inspected the walls, table and curtains.
No doubt this room was meagre compared to her former residence, but he’d personally chosen the paperhangings and commissioned a table to seat four but extend should the need arise. He loathed attending some event where one had to yell to be heard by your supper companions.
“Is all to your comfort, Miss Griffin?” he asked, placing himself opposite.
“I was just thinking what a pleasant room this is. Intimate and cosy, although…” A crease appeared between her brows. “I don’t wish to persuade in any way but…the rooms could do with some books, perhaps? Just a few to cheer the shelves and so forth…but I understand they are expensive.” Miss Griffin pushed her spectacles up. “I’ve not visited, but I believe there’s a little shop on Pendle Street which sells them…” She lowered her voice. “Second-hand.”
Seth grinned and–
“Sorry I’m late,” Chloe gushed, then halted her step, steadied her balance with palms flat and curtsied with the previously unseen grace of a queen, despite the gown revealing her ankles. “Betty needed help with the meringues.”
“That’s fine, pet. I was about to ask Miss Griffin how she sees your timetable proceeding.”
Chloe plonked herself left of Seth as the maid staggered in with a soup tureen. A swift grace was vowed before they both lifted their heads to Miss Griffin.
“Well…” With eyes wide as acorns, the governess coughed elegantly and gazed to the ceiling as though the timetable was written in the ornate plasterwork. “For the mornings, a selection from: Astronomy. French. Grammar. Maths. Painting. Classical Studies. Geography and so forth. All sectioned into one-hour slots. Then for the afternoons…” She breathed deep. “Etiquette – at balls, soirees, musical events and suchlike. A lady’s accomplishments, naturally. Sewing. Recitation. Pianoforte. Bookkeeping. Netting and so on.”
His daughter gaped.
“That’s most…” Seth floundered.
“I’ll be as old as eighteen once I’ve learned all that.”
“I studied much the same as a child,” Miss Griffin declared. “Chloe, your elbows…”
“But…” His daughter’s elbows retreated from the table. “When did you go to the park? Or play hopscotch with friends? Or Battledore?”
Miss Griffin’s spoon whirled in the soup, her brow furrowed. “I was sent to the museum twice a sennight with a maid.”
“Not the park?”
“Well…” His governess gave a fleeting smile. “I do remember a brief visit to the Serpentine in Summer 1806.”
“To feed the ducks some bread?”
“It was more presented to me as studying the environmental habitat of the domesticated mallard. No bread that I recall.”
Seth winced, for it appeared his governess’s childhood had solely been devoted to studious endeavour. Worthy enough but somewhat lacking in fun and friends.
Not that he hadn’t made many a mistake with Chloe, but he’d always sought to bring cheer to her life, to make up for what they lacked.
One long ago winter’s night, they’d run out of candles when he’d not the coin to pay the tallow-chandler’s bill, but he’d claimed it was akin to All Hallow’s Eve and they’d chortled over ghost stories in the pitch dark.
And now he understood why, at the interview, Miss Griffin had mentioned how she wished to experience life, to no longer be shielded from either its blessings or perils, and an absurd desire to aid her cause arose within.
To escort her to Vauxhall Gardens and watch her gasp at the miraculous cascade, to partake of an evening at Astley’s Amphitheatre and laugh at the clowns, or just a simple picnic in the sunshine surrounded by jovial company.
In lieu, he filled her wine glass with the finest claret that his Academy members’ money could buy.
Feeling pleasantly mellow after Betty’s superb main course of pigeon pie, stewed hare, ragout of vegetables, roasted duck and a jug of gravy, Matilda allowed her spine to meet the chair back and proceeded to sip her pudding wine.
Cousin Astwood employed a certain Monsieur Porcher as chef, who although could do wonders with a lone asparagus spear and a thimble of jus du frisa, was inclined to leave his diners hungry.
Those mealtimes with her cousin had involved silent stares or ignoring his rants on a woman’s duty to submit.
Here, Matilda listened in as Mr Hawkins chatted to his daughter about a certain young Irishman who wished to be a prizefighter, and although Matilda hadn’t the foggiest about plumpers or whiffles, she enjoyed the rapid movement of his calloused hands, the rasp of his voice.
Perchance the husky squawking of male pelicans had a similar effect on the females?
“Do you like boxing, Miss? Or know any moves?”
Matilda blinked. She’d no wish to insult anyone and end the day by being disemployed but… “Generally, a lady is not exposed to the…sport, so our opinion is not qualified or taken note of.”
“Hmm.” And her charge nodded.
Content with her diplomatic response and with the likelihood of disemployment lessened, Matilda continued, “Indeed, from the little I know, it appears most gruelling and with my small stature and paltry strength, I doubt I would be capable.”
“‘Our doubts are traitors…’” murmured Mr Hawkins.
Matilda frowned. ‘…And make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.’ She slid her confused gaze across the table, noted those rough fingers caress a fragile glass stem with care and serenity. Those words of Shakespeare spoke her very thoughts at times: fear for her future struggles as governess and the treacherous doubts that crept in when alone in her bed.
But where had he learned these quotes?
“Did you attend school, Mr Hawkins?” She didn’t mean to be rude but…
Chloe filled her mouth with meringue.
“Only on Saturdays at the local charity school. My father was a coal heaver and I followed in his footsteps. No time for learning.”
“No, of course.” And she supposed a man whose profession involved pugilism would not have need of reading material – walloping and thumping being learned through experience.
“Do you…” She bit her lip. “Do you know if a circulating library happens to be nearby?”
Mr Hawkins leaned back with levelled eyes that could pierce diamond. “Are we lacking in something, Miss Griffin? Do you require more books for the schoolroom?”
What could she say? It was just that she missed them, by her bed and in her palm, like dear friends surrounding her, the touch of smooth paper, the smell of bound leather. When she’d awoken at night, afraid and alone in the nursery, a book had soothed her, tales of the tropical Molucca Islands and its native birds lulling her back to sleep. One day, she’d travel there…
Mathematics and grammar were all very well, but rather dry.
Oh, why had she not filched just one book of poetry from her bedside table?
Pride, she thought dejectedly. Not wanting to take anything from Astwood.
However, now she led a working life and could not expect possessions of her own. Perchance when she’d saved some wages, she could dash to Hatchards and buy a small volume, just for herself.
Never should she have brought up the subject, as surely it appeared ungrateful – she had wonderful food, a warm bed
and agreeable plumage to look upon.
“No, ’tis fine. Please forget I mentioned it, Mr Hawkins.” And Matilda endeavoured a smile.
Her employer frowned, a puckering that appeared foreign to his brow, then dropped his serviette to the table. “I shall expect you in my study at the hour of ten on the morrow, Miss Griffin. We will discuss it then.”
Oh botheration.
Chapter Six
“A prudent young woman will pause, therefore, on words, before she utters them to men, and will regulate her action by unconstrained dignity.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815
“What do you make of the new governess, Betty?”
Seth checked his fob watch – a quarter before the hour of ten – tugged down his errant cuff and tidied his aquamarine silk waistcoat before straightening an illustration of himself with Mauler Mike on the study wall.
A snort answered his question, so he swivelled. “You don’t like her?”
Blue eyes flashed with mirth and her lips smirked as she tidied the coffee pot away, so Seth tapered his gaze in sternness, despite knowing it would not make a blind bit of difference.
When his wife had left them all those years ago, their Rookery neighbour, Betty, had taken up the reins, cooking them meals and letting down Chloe’s dress hems every fortnight, her husband Mick assisting with training and schedule.
A few years later, with enough money in his pocket from a championship win, Seth had left the Rookery, persuading them to come with him, and Mick now looked after the day-to-day running of the club whilst Betty still looked after the lot of them. They had a neat little house not far away on Haymarket and spent every August on the coast.
“Yer Miss Griffin is refined, honest and has a noggin big as Dorset. But she’s also hardy as old boots, and I like her very much, even if she don’t exactly use words that trip off the tongue. A bit wordy, like.”
“Well, that’s…good. Thank you, Betty.”
With a wink, she ambled out, and Seth hummed and hawed, waiting for the clock to chime ten.
Despite scarcely passing time with Miss Griffin, he had discerned much over dinner last night.
Firstly, as Betty had so eloquently described, her intelligence was obvious, French words bandied about with savoir faire.
Secondly, compared to that prospective governess who’d reassured him at the interview she’d have his pugilistic daughter beaten for such ‘unnatural inclinations’, Miss Griffin appeared understanding of Chloe’s interests.
And thirdly, for all the society events the lady must have attended, she appeared utterly oblivious of her own beauty and radiance.
His wife had known the price of her smile and sea-blue eyes from an early age – to get out of trouble…and into it. Had known how to cadge an apple with a pucker of lips or receive a free ale with a suggestive cock of hip.
Miss Griffin seemed unacquainted with feminine wiles, quite unaware of how her exquisiteness could drag a man to his knees.
Indeed, if he had to summarise the lady, it would be honesty in all matters. She’d revealed the truth at the interview, and when Chloe had asked a difficult question at dinner concerning meringue etiquette, she’d not fibbed or brushed it off with excuses but acknowledged her ignorance and replied they’d research it the very next day.
So many people pretended in these times, even himself with his accent and manners. He’d spent countless nights learning aristocratic diction, mimicking the swells’ mannerisms and airs, so that nowadays it was second nature. Only in the company of a fellow fighter did his veneer of respectability melt like mercury, displaying the warrior beneath.
Yet Miss Griffin’s character was as natural and clear as breathing.
The carriage clock chimed and he faffed with a letter to look busy.
On the eighth bell, a knock sounded.
“Come in.”
Nankeen-coloured cotton, more suited to a picnic by the Serpentine, garbed his nervous-looking governess, black hair severely pinned and lips bitten rosy red.
“I hope, Miss Griffin, that I am not interrupting your morn with this?”
“Not at all. I have left Chloe practising her singing, an accomplishment in which she is entirely euphonious.”
No, he had no idea either, so…
“After your comments last night, I thought I would conduct a small tour of the house. It was remiss of me not to do so on your first day.”
A rush of air left Matilda’s lungs that she felt quite sure had been held in since last night.
In fact, she’d been irksomely bothered by inexplicable dreams of Mr Hawkins all night through. He’d been sternly reprimanding her, nude except for those snug black breeches. Not so irksome, some might say, but then a magnificent pair of feathered wings coloured in gold and red had sprouted upon his back. Within a clear blue sky, he’d soared aloft, dipped and twisted before, with a fiery gaze, he’d swooped down upon her, rough hands encircling her waist and–
Then she’d woken up.
Inexplicable, as she’d said.
Matilda cleared her throat and took refuge in cool courtesy. “That would be splendid, thank you.” And she attempted a swift bobbed curtsey, aware she only knew sweeping, elegant forms. Maids appeared able to bob in all haste without nigh falling over. “I also wished to ask a…favour.”
Eyebrows raised, that enigmatic scar wrinkling. “Tell me on the way.” And he waggled his forearm.
With some hesitation, she laid her hand on the indigo superfine, sensed his muscles tense. “Of course…Sir.” That being the correct address, she’d concluded late last night, as he was her employer…and it was less protracted than Mr Hawkins. And in any case, the maid did it.
They departed the ground floor study and he pointed to a black-painted door opposite the kitchens. “The only area out of bounds,” he stated, “is the basement as it’s for club members and my own use.”
Matilda shuddered. What on earth did males do down there? Was it some kind of fighting pit where barbaric combat was enacted…or a changing abode where taut thighs or unclothed musculature might be glimpsed?
She breathed deep – that kind of wild imagining was the result of not having any novels to occupy her.
“I will avoid it at all cost, Sir,” she assured fervently.
A smile shifted his lips – lopsided and disturbingly attractive – hazel eyes twinkling, aquamarine waistcoat complementing his olive-toned skin. Delicate flowers were embroidered upon the cotton, which in no manner detracted from his masculinity, and a single row of blue buttons tempted one’s gaze to follow upwards…or downwards.
He appeared young and carefree this morning, and it occurred to her that Mr Hawkins had looked most tired last night. “Does the Academy take much of your time?”
“It is lessening now the membership is stable, but in the early days it was unending – accounts, shows, exhibitions, let alone the classes. I have assistants, equally capable, but most members only wish to learn from the champion prizefighter, not his assistants.” He guided her up the staircase. “On the first floor, you are familiar with the dining and drawing rooms, and you’ve seen the ballroom we use for our personal sparring practice, but there is also a small salon with a balcony here.”
They wandered left and into a pleasant, light room with sofas, no books, French doors and walls decorated in muted colours. Which reminded her…
“The favour, Mr Hawkins… I-I wondered if I might request…” This subject was vulgar in the extreme, and her parents would turn in their graves, but needs must… “Might I have an advance on my wages? It’s just that Cousin Astwood replaced my entire wardrobe with yellow and I am aware it is hardly proper governess attire.”
He twisted, his gaze settling on her nankeen skirts. “I did wonder. Although I have to say that while your cousin may be an oaf, he does have exquisite taste. The colour adds a sheen to your skin and intensifies the coal silk of you
r hair…if you don’t mind me saying so.” He fiddled with his cuff.
No, she didn’t mind at all. No one ever complimented her. But then yellow was nature’s attractant, the flowers in spring blooming that hue for the early insects.
“I’m afraid that in order to forge ahead in my profession, I ought to dress suitably. I would only need a small advance…I think.” Shamefully, she had no idea. She could recite Hamlet and yet had no inkling as to the cost of a simple brown frock.
Mr Hawkins unlocked the French doors and they wandered onto the balcony that overlooked the garden and hence Green Park. By day, their lush neighbour appeared tranquil and not scary at all.
Grey clouds hung low and heavy with ominous rain as they had done most days this year, a scant breeze gusting cologne of leather and male.
“The dressmaker is visiting next week as Chloe likewise needs new clothes. She could fit you at the same time.”
“My requirements are simple.”
“As you wish.” Mr Hawkins urged her back inside as she shivered in the crispness of the hour. “And as for wages, I also need a…favour, and if you agree, it will pay for these dresses.”
Matilda pursed her lips and crossed her arms.
What would a widowed virile man ask of his female unchaperoned governess?
Rampant images from a Greek vase she’d once viewed startled Matilda – disturbing and altogether indelicate. “What exactly do you wish me to do?”
He swivelled from the French door. “It’s my turn to host our Annual Champions’ Dinner at the weekend, and as you are here, I wondered if you could act as my hostess? Conversation, menus and suchlike.”
Oh.
But…
She thrust her shoulders back and drew her short stature up as high as it would go, stepping close. “Mr Hawkins, although I may lead a working life now, I still do not consider it proper for a lone woman to oversee a dinner full of solely male…pugilists.” She glared. Honestly. Men. They had no idea! “If it should ever become known that I did so, my reputation as a custodian of innocent girls would be forever ruined, my future career in tatters. Employers would consider me a lightskirt, a blowsabella they could call upon at any time to–”
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